


Brought Offline

by Doomsteady



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Consensual, Hand Jobs, Intergluteal Sex, M/M, POV John Watson, PWP, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Unconscious Sex, Viagra, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 10:18:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8098318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doomsteady/pseuds/Doomsteady
Summary: Sherlock can only achieve orgasm when he's retreated into his Mind Palace, divorcing body from mind. After getting an accidental dose of viagra, and with an erection that just won't quit, he leaves John to deal with it in whatever way he likes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is total wank material. Enjoy!

“John. _Please._ I can’t do it. You have to.”  
  
It’s been one of those days. They’ve just finished up a month-long case for the Met, concluding in a heart-stopping showdown inside a circus tent when Sherlock had chased the killer (a homicidal clown) up onto a tightrope and wrestled him into submission, all without losing his balance. He'd then addressed the shocked audience and stated not to worry, the vast majority of clowns _weren't_ in fact serial killers, but that if their child happened to express an interest in the profession above the age of 8 they should probably seek a psychological evaluation, just to be on the safe side.  
  
Later, John had convinced a highly reluctant Sherlock to attend the police after-party being thrown by D I Lestrade’s department back at the station, citing his need to be more socially acclimatized. The party was attended by many of the officers who’d ‘helped’ them (Sherlock would insist on the scare-quotes around the word) on the case, including Sally Donovan, who as it turns out still holds something of a grudge against Sherlock for his long history of embarrassing her in front of her superiors.  
  
Sherlock’s entirely correct observation that any embarrassment over the things he deduces about her is entirely her own doing had obviously not dissuaded her from getting revenge on him whenever possible. And tonight, it seemed, the prank of the day was spiking his drink with viagra.

If there’s one thing she could never be accused of, Sherlock had muttered to John as the drug was taking its course, it’s having an original idea.  
  
If only she knew how lucky she’d struck with that particular gem. Because as it turns out, Sherlock can only achieve orgasm when he's retreated into his Mind Palace, divorcing body from mind. It’s all too noisy in his head, he explains, such that he isn’t able to concentrate fully on the physical pleasure in order to allow it to overtake him. His brain simply won’t relinquish control long enough to let it happen.  
  
So after finding himself dosed, and spending the rest of the night with an erection that just won't quit, he’d begged John to take them home and help him deal with it.

 

* * *

  
  
“I fail to see how this is my problem,” John complains as he’s pouring himself a cup of tea, and he can hear the resulting pout all the way from the living room.  
  
Sherlock lies flat on his back on the sofa, the same position he's been in for the past hour. “It was your idea to drag us along to that god-awful function,” he snipes. “Do you have _any idea_ how uncomfortable this is for me?”  
  
He can certainly imagine. John understands his friends’ predicament, having heard the confession late one night after a few too many drinks. Sherlock can — and does — have orgasms, but they’re usually in the form of wet dreams, his transport's method of relieving tension while Sherlock's brain is largely offline. But his infrequent attempts at masturbation have always ended in frustration and failure.  
  
Re-entering the living room, John can’t help but pity the sight of him. Sherlock’s frown is a portrait of misery, his hands cradling the tender area of his groin, which is tented and straining against the material of his trousers. His eyes meet John’s with the most imploring, puppy-dog expression he can manage.  
  
John sets his tea down on the table and sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Well… What exactly do you want _me_ to do about it?” He’s sure he’ll regret asking, but he’s nothing if not Sherlock’s best friend, and he hates to see him in this much discomfort.  
  
“Nothing unusual. Just… stimulation. I’ll be inside my Mind Palace, so I won’t even experience it. I won’t see, hear, or feel it. But my body will respond. I just need relief, John. Please?”  
  
He sighs. It's always a bad sign when Sherlock is reduced to saying _'please'_ more than once in a five hour period. It definitely will be weird. But if Sherlock — that is, the mind of him — won’t even be present, maybe the best is to just get it over with as quickly as possible.  
  
“Well… What sort of, um… stimulation? Is there anything…” _Oh God, what an awkward question._ “Is there anything off-limits?” he forces himself to say, traitorous mind already running through the possibilities in his imagination.  
  
“Whatever works,” he shrugs. “Do whatever you think is having the right effect. As long as I _cum_.” And with that, Sherlock closes his eyes and takes a deep, steady breath. His hands drop to his sides and he goes entirely limp from head to toe, like his brain let go of the steering wheel and jumped out of the car.  
  
“Great. This is not exactly what I pictured myself doing tonight,” John mutters to himself.  
  
He approaches the sofa and sits on the edge by Sherlock’s legs, considering his options. _I could just refuse,_ he thinks. But he can’t just leave him like that. He knows first-hand how uncomfortable it can be, walking around with a stiffy for hours on end. He lives with Sherlock Holmes, for chrissakes, he’s hard half the time just being in close proximity to the man.  
  
It’s not that he’s attracted to Sherlock. Not that he’d ever admit, at least. He had a reputation to uphold, and he most certainly _isn’t gay_. So doing this is definitely a pretty weird experience for him. But John has decided to treat it like the doctor he is: he’s helping his friend with a medical issue. That’s all.  
  
Experimentally, he places a hand over Sherlock's groin, looking up to gauge his reaction - if any - and finding nothing. At least, not in his expression. His manhood, however, seems immediately responsive to the attention. Probably starved for it, poor thing. John gently kneads the flesh through the fabric, feeling it grow even harder under his hand. It shouldn't affect him, but John is having a sympathetic reaction, his own cock growing rather thick in his jeans.  
  
_It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just that in another context, this would be intimate. I’m not being intimate with Sherlock. I’m just stimulating him. He doesn’t even feel it._  
  
He's thankful that Sherlock spends most of his time at home with just a robe and pants to cover him. So that part, at least, is easy: he undoes the knot at the front of his dressing gown, and the silk material slides apart, revealing the smooth pale skin of his stomach and the gentle ridges of his abs.  
  
Sherlock hasn't moved or made a sound, and his face is placid and relaxed. Feeling a bit bolder, John grips his hard length through the material and gives it a squeeze, then begins to stroke it with a slow, steady rhythm. Would this be enough to make him cum, he wonders?  
  
He picks up the pace, taking a firmer grip and pumping it through his fist. He can feel the flesh growing hotter, blood pulsing through its veins. But after ten minutes of this, he's starting to think a more direct tactic is required if he's ever going to bring Sherlock's catatonic body to orgasm; he's going to have to make proper skin-to-skin contact.  
  
As he undoes Sherlock’s trouser button and unzips his fly, he’s having second thoughts about doing this. Touching someone without their knowledge - even with their full consent - just doesn't seem kosher to him. Nevertheless, he’s apparently agreed to the troublesome task, and now he watches Sherlock’s absent expression as he pulls down the man’s trousers and pants, his mouth oddly thick with saliva as he watches the flushed and swollen penis spring free of its confines.  
  
The flesh is dark pink, its bulbous head already glistening with pre-cum. Well, it's good to see that he's responding to some degree. With a glance to make extra sure Sherlock is still under, John wraps his hand back around it and resumes pumping. The sight of it squeezing through his fist is surprisingly hot, even if this is supposed to be a strictly medical procedure. John is achingly hard already.  
  
_And really, would Sherlock even know if…?_  
  
John unzips his jeans, shoving his free hand into his underwear to give himself a firm stroke. He exhales through clenched teeth; _that has no right to feel as good as it does, considering what I'm doing right now_. It's a minor relief, but now that he's started, he finds he couldn't possibly stop. He begins wanking them both simultaneously, matching their speeds. He’s not entirely sure why he wants to time them to cum together, but just the idea of it is proving irresistibly arousing, so he’s going to try, even if he has no idea how close Sherlock is right now.  
  
He, on the other hand, is already pretty close. He had no idea something like this could be so, so… _erotic_.  
  
Sherlock's cock is slowly leaking over John’s hand as he pumps him, and John notices his expression is a little tighter now, a slight crease forming between his brow, and his breathing has definitely picked up. It would seem the transport is finally reacting to John’s stimulus, and in return, there’s a low spark of excitement and mounting heat building within John’s balls.  
  
It’s taking too long, though. There must be something more he can do? He was going to keep this as clinical as possible, but honestly, John thinks he might be able to do better with his mouth. And Sherlock wouldn't care how he did it, would he? He said so himself: anything is fine, as long as it accomplishes the task. Besides, he doesn’t need to know _how_ , just as long as it happens. John is coming around to the idea that this might actually be an interesting way to do a little experimentation, safe in the knowledge that nobody — not even his flatmate — would ever know.  
  
He leans over him, taking a moment just to smell it, that musky scent of sex and clean skin and fresh sweat. Then, tentatively, he flicks his tongue over the dripping head, tasting him. Sherlock makes a small noise at this, the first sound John has heard out of him since he began, and for a moment he’s terrified that Sherlock has woken up and discovered him tonguing his cock. But Sherlock is still locked away, thinking about God-knows-what in his Mind Palace, completely oblivious to anything John is doing.  
  
Taking the noise as a positive sign, he presses his tongue harder over his slit, swiping a long, breathy lick over the top like it's a scoop of ice-cream, and Sherlock's stomach and thighs clench in response.  
  
_There we go. I knew you’d like that._  
  
John finds he's enjoying this far more than he has any right to, and he’s quickly losing his inhibitions. Wetting his lips, he takes the cock head into his mouth, giving it a firm suck. Another twitch, a sound like an elongated _‘mmnnn’_ , and a dollop of precum spills into his mouth. Well, that certainly seems to work well. He cringes, but swallows the liquid. It doesn’t taste all that bad; just very warm, and a bit too salty. Sherlock really should drink more often. He gives the head another long, hard suck, and an unbidden moan is wrenched from Sherlock's lungs sheerly through the force of muscular contraction.  
  
John takes him further into his mouth, sliding his tongue back and forth as the thick erection presses against his palate. It’s a tight fit. Sherlock’s dick isn’t enormous, but it has a healthy girth to it, and John presses it as far as it will go into the back of his throat without choking him, swallowing around it. The contraction of muscles elicits another voicy exhale from Sherlock, who thankfully remains unaware of John’s decidedly non-professional solution.  
  
John slides his cock out with a wet slurp, then repeats the process, wanking the base with his fist in a redoubled effort. He's a little worried that he doesn't know when Sherlock is going to tip over the edge, but he finds he's caring less and less about ending up with a mouth full of semen considering the copious amounts of pre-cum he's currently happily drinking. Sherlock's body is reacting beautifully now. His muscles continually tense and relax, twitching, quivering, and he's making noises John has never heard come out of that mouth before. Utterly unconscious, unmoderated moans, driven only by the forceful push of air as his body contracts whenever John's suction around his cock intensifies.  
  
As for John, he's been keeping himself on the edge for what feels like an eternity waiting for Sherlock to come, but it still doesn't seem like this is enough to bring him all the way there. John's jaw is aching, and while the reaction has been promising, it's no longer ramping up any further, seemingly teetering on the edge. So close, but still needs something more. Even with his noisy mind locked safely away, Sherlock’s stubborn body seems reluctant to let itself completely go.  
  
John has one final idea. He strips off his jeans and pants, climbing onto the sofa to perch over Sherlock’s limp form and his very hard, dripping wet dick. And while he wouldn't dream of fucking himself on Sherlock like this, perhaps there’s something else he can do that’s close enough? Pressing Sherlock's twitching penis flat against his stomach, John straddles it with his bum, feeling the length of it slot in between his arse cheeks. Then he starts to frot against him, clenching tight around the cock and sliding along it, wanking him between his cheeks.  
  
The transport is _definitely_ enjoying this. Sherlock's face is a picture of unbridled pleasure, his brows drawn tight, the crease between them deepening with each of John's thrusts. His mouth is slack and fallen open, and his wordless moans are coming louder than John has ever heard from any of his lovers. Perhaps, without his conscious mind there to moderate his volume, Sherlock’s body is currently free to produce noise at a level that's a perfectly honest reflection of the pleasure it's feeling- which must be pretty bloody good, given how it's echoing unashamedly throughout the room.  
  
John pumps his own cock faster, bringing himself back to the edge and willing Sherlock's body to cum beneath him. His arse has a tight grip, his hole twitching longingly against the silky flesh and their hips roll forward over and over, pressing firmly together. Sherlock's is even doing so of its own accord now, in its desperation for release. He's so close now, John knows, convulsing on the sofa, arms limp at his sides, features drawn tight on his face. He’s grinding his cock against John, nudging his bollocks with every thrust. John can feel Sherlock's long overdue climax fast approaching in the thickening of his prick, the rush of heat in his balls as they draw up and tighten against him.  
  
One mis-timed thrust is all it takes to make Sherlock slip accidentally into John's (thankfully quite relaxed) arsehole. Sherlock’s eyes fly open for the briefest moment, before screwing tightly closed, and suddenly his upper half lifts off the sofa and for a moment John panics, thinking he's woken up, but it's just his stomach muscles clenching like a vice and he’s cumming hard into John’s arse, his cock pulsing thickly inside him. John feels the rush of fluid passing through Sherlock’s cock as it spurts out in waves. A long, strangled cry of escapes his friend, hitching and intensifying around the rhythmic shuddering of his body, and it just seems to keep on going as his cock tenses five, six, seven times, coating John's insides in vast, hot pulses that trickle out of him and onto Sherlock's skin and the sofa. The sight, sound and smell of it pushes John over the edge and he’s suddenly cumming too, squirting his own loads of semen over Sherlock's heaving chest. His anus clenches around Sherlock’s cock, milking the remainder out of him.  
  
Finally, Sherlock's orgasm begins to subside and his body relaxes back into the cushions, still twitching occasionally with powerful aftershocks that make his cock dribble. When it eventually begins softening, John gingerly climbs off him.  
  
_Well, that didn’t go exactly according to plan, but… Christ. That was incredible._  
  
After a visit to the loo, John returns to find Sherlock wide awake and wiping himself down with a handful of tissues. John momentarily forgets he isn’t wearing any pants.  
  
“So… all good?” he asks, not quite managing to sound casual about it. Sherlock glances at him then, and for a moment he isn’t sure if there’s something smug in that expression. But if there was, it quickly disappears beneath a stoic veil.  
  
“Sufficiently relieved. Thank you.”  
  
Electing not to waltz back into the living room half naked, John heads upstairs to his room and re-clothes himself there.  
  


 

* * *

  
  
A week later, John is returning from Tesco, arms full of shopping bags. As he’s climbing the 17 stairs to 221B, he hears a whiny Sherlock calling to him from inside the flat. When he opens the door, Sherlock is laying on the sofa, giving him puppy-dog eyes. His trousers impressively tented.  
  
“ _Please_?”


End file.
